


Slightly Better than Life

by horselizard



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Bondage, Cuckolding, Emotion Play, F/M, Femdom, Gags, Humiliation, Malesub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horselizard/pseuds/horselizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bookverse, marginally AU.</p><p>Juanita won't let Rimmer touch her perfect body. It'd invalidate the insurance. But he still has a sex life with her... of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slightly Better than Life

Ten to the hour. That was always the appointed time, the moment she gave for him to sneak away from whatever soirée or meeting was going on downstairs. Just enough time for her to strip his absurdly-muscled solidgrammatic body of its expensively tailored outfit. Just enough time for him to get a raging hard-on at the sight of her in her silk stockings and gossamer-thin underwear; at the way her perfectly manicured fingers brushed against his skin, pressed lightly against his erogenous zones through cloth, without ever properly _touching_ him.

Then, with minutes to spare, she would throw his delicate clothes carelessly into the bottom of the solid oak wardrobe, and, with equal carelessness, shove him down onto his backside on top of them. She would lock the set of stiff leather cuffs round his wrists and ankles, leaving only one thing usefully within his reach – something he would be reaching for with fervour before long.

As ever, he would look up at her pleadingly, and as ever, she would ignore him completely, reach for the duct tape, and slap a generous length of it across his mouth. Sometimes, if she could be bothered to find it, she'd even pin his cavernous nostrils closed with her swimmer's nose-clip. He didn't need to breathe, after all, and occasionally his muffled moans got worryingly loud even when they could only escape through his nose. Much safer just to leave him pitifully whimpering, as what little air was still trapped behind the gag squeaked weakly back and forth past his vocal cords.

Sometimes, if she was feeling _really_ mean, she would stuff his boxers into his mouth before she taped it shut. This was one of those times.

The heavy oak door swung closed, only the barest chink of light cutting through the blackness. Rimmer shut his eyes and let his head tip back against cool, smooth wood. Something silky brushed against his face, one of Juanita's show-stoppingly high-cut dresses, though he couldn't tell which. The association sent vivid images into his mind of his wife's toned, bronzed legs, legs which went on forever, legs whose soft, firm contours he could happily have spent decades mapping... legs that were about to be pawed and fondled and spread by yet another person who wasn't him.

Outdated instinct prompted his breath to come shallower; a rush of humiliation filled him as, instead, his lungs worked uselessly against the gags blocking his nose and mouth. Really, most of this wasn't even necessary. Just hearing what went on in their marital bed was enough. But she had taken gleefully to the task of making his indignity all the more undignified. Besides, this way, he was painfully aware of how completely powerless he was to stop the proceedings – even if he wanted to.

He heard a furtive knock at the bedroom door, and feverishly wondered who it would be this time, which of the servants would be the one today to rub his nose in his enforced celibacy. Rich, and famous, and powerful, and yet his wife turned him down in favour of letting their grubby working-class hands roam over her supermodel's body. It functioned as exactly the slap in the face it was intended to be; he felt it keenly as he reflected on his own pathetic position, stuck cramped and stiff in the bottom of a wardrobe, gagged and naked and _alone_. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.

Muffled snatches of their pointlessly hushed conversation filtered through the wardrobe door, and Rimmer strained to place the voice of his rival _du jour_. He knew them all, by now – well, most of them, since new ones were added to the roster with mortifying frequency. But he knew their styles, their tastes, the mind-blowing variety of moans they provoked from Juanita. If they hadn't all been talented and self-assured lovers to start with, they certainly were after all that practice; yet another reason, he admitted forlornly, why it made perfect sense for her to relegate him to the closet.

Then his wife and her lover laughed (at his expense? almost certainly), and he froze in disbelief. There was no mistaking that confident chuckle, those plummy tones. He struggled wildly, choking on his mouthful of cotton, in a brief, fierce moment of desperation. He wished he could get out. He wished he could cover his ears. He wished he could frighten the visitor away with a sudden scream. For a few seconds, he would have done anything, absolutely anything, rather than be forced to sit there and take it as his wife Juanita fucked his brother Frank.

His cheeks flamed with rage and humiliation as their flirty sweet-nothings penetrated his cube of shame. Frank, his constant rival, his fiercest tormentor, the brother who had bested him at every turn growing up. Frank, whom he had finally, after decades of being the family failure, _finally_ managed to outshine in wealth and status and marriage. And now, despite all his efforts, Frank had got the better of him yet again. For all his wealth and status, he still couldn't stop his own brother from making a mockery of his marriage. He might be the most powerful man in the world, but in his brother's eyes, in his servants' eyes, in his wife's eyes, he was the ultimate loser.

Painfully, by pathetic degrees, he drew his long legs up closer to his body, until one cuffed hand finally had enough reach to close around his rock-hard erection.

 

The wardrobe door swung open, and Rimmer squinted weakly into the sudden brightness. Juanita stood over him in a black silk robe, smiling smugly as she raked unforgiving eyes over his cramped, sweaty, helpless body. Her gaze lingered on the splashes of cum which were drying on his chest, and he burned with renewed shame.

“I was good that time, wasn' I, darleeng?” she said with satisfaction, as she unceremoniously pulled off the nose-clip. She ripped the duct tape from across his mouth, provoking the first howl he'd been halfway able to vocalise all evening.

Tears brimmed in his eyes as she pushed her face close to his. “Answer me. Wasn' I good at fuckeeng your brother?”

Rimmer nodded pathetically, too beaten-down by the humiliation of the past however-many torturous minutes to muster any pride. “Ees what I thought,” she laughed, pushing her fingers roughly into his mouth and extracting the crumpled wad of his boxers.

Finally, she undid his cuffs, then turned and disappeared into the en-suite, having clearly lost what little interest she'd briefly shown in him. He groaned as he stretched out his stiff, strained limbs. He felt exhausted, but he forced himself to struggle upright and start shaking out his creased, flattened clothes; he'd been gone far too long already.

Visions danced around his head, visions he wouldn't be able to shake for a good few days – visions which would plague him as he tried to bluff his way through polite company, reminding him what a contemptible cuckold he truly was. He wallowed in the shame, savoured the heavy ache in his limbs and the tender marks around his wrists and ankles, revelled in the sweat and stickiness he would have to carry around under his fancy tailoring for the rest of the night. He knew his place, all right. And no matter how much his peers and acolytes fawned over him, he'd be back in it just as soon as his wife fancied another dalliance.

He peered at himself in the mirror, fruitlessly trying to smooth down little signs of his dishevelment, and a smile ghosted across his thin lips. He was well aware that his subconscious had it in for him. He knew that while he was here, his brain would never allow him to experience nice things. But at least it would let him take some pleasure from the _bad_ things.


End file.
